


Buzzcut Season

by Aylarah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Possession, Running Away, and can really be replaced with a ship of your choice, but in my head it's sterek, post 3b, the sterek is very ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylarah/pseuds/Aylarah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he finds Lydia curled up on the couch and he’ll catch a glimpse of something on TV – a slightly crooked jaw, scrape of dark stubble, a girl with messy dirty blonde hair, an explosion – and his heart clenches tightly. But the news always moves on, and eventually he can breathe again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buzzcut Season

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song Buzzcut Season - Lorde. Fic popped into my head the first time I heard the song, and I practically had it on loop whilst I wrote it, so I recommend you give it a listen.

Sometimes he finds Lydia curled up on the couch and he’ll catch a glimpse of something on TV – a slightly crooked jaw, scrape of dark stubble, a girl with messy dirty blonde hair, an explosion – and his heart clenches tightly. But the news always moves on, and eventually he can breathe again. Pretends not to notice that Lydia’s hands are white where she’s clutching a cushion to her chest, and they share a long period of silence before either can speak to the other certain that their voice won’t crack.

Sometimes he catches himself in the middle of laughing, sipping mocktails out of fancy glasses with little umbrellas next to the pool that he gets paid fifteen dollars an hour to clean. Lydia sunning herself on the deck chair next to him, pristine white swimsuit almost glaring in the sunlight, reflection of the glistening water caught in her overly large, dark sunglasses that allow nobody, not even Stiles, to see what she’s really feeling. He catches himself in the middle of laughing and for a moment all he can do is reflect on how _fake_ it all is. How none of it means anything. But then Mrs Stevenson comes out with another jug of pineapple juice and a sardonic (but somehow still soft) comment to Lydia about the state of her hands and he pushes it from his mind. This is what his life is now. This is what he wants.

He doesn’t like his hair long anymore. Cutting it back close to his head reminds him of when his mom died, but that’s… that’s _good_ in a way. It wasn’t until later that it grew out again, when he- Besides, Lydia had gotten her hair caught during one of her first shifts at the diner and took a knife to it in frustration. The long, glorious locks of fire that Stiles had admired for so many years dull and lifeless in the dirt. Stiles cut his off in solidarity that very evening.

Sometimes he catches himself with his phone already out of his pocket, a familiar (and yet now disconnected) number half dialled in an attempt to share something funny about his day. He shakes it off before he can feel anything, flicking back to the apps on his home screen as if that had been his intention all along. Catches himself paying just a little too much attention to a specific area of the map when the weather forecast is on TV, listening a little too intently to stories involving the police force.

Sometimes he starts to remember the feel of arms wrapped around him. The feel of a cheek brushing not-quite-softly against his; the what-could-have-been. But a noise from further back on the bus pulls him out of it, and he draws his knees up to his chest. Lydia lays her head softly against his shoulder, somehow knowing what not to say, and they sit in silence together until they arrive again at the school they still don’t quite fit in. But it’s been several months now, and they’re no longer the new kids. They’re just the quiet ones.

Lydia still has that fierceness to her that Stiles has always loved, it’s just expressed differently now. She still has biting and witty comments to throw at Stiles and anyone who joins them, but they’re fewer now. There’s more evenings spent in silence, only the sound of the television to keep them company. But that strength is still there. The night Lydia took a knife to her hair Stiles laid awake all night, remembering. He thinks he heard a sob from her room in the early hours of the morning, but pretends he didn’t. Lydia came out the next morning, hair neatly styled, a determined look on her face, picked up her keys and left for the diner. She doesn’t react to the sniggers and stares from her colleagues, just picks up the mop and walks towards the bathrooms, head held proud. Never complains when she gets home about the pain though the skin on her hands is cracking, or the creepy feeling she gets from the manager’s son. Ignores the taunts she gets from the staff that take her quietness for her thinking she’s better than them. She just does her work, does it well, and in the evening Stiles makes sure to pick up a movie he knows she’ll love and rubs moisturiser into her hands whilst she eats the brownies he’s brought back from the house. She doesn’t think her nails will ever be the same. 

At night…

At night.

He sleeps, of course. Tried staying awake initially but there’s only so long you can do that and stay sane. And Lydia needs him to stay sane. So he sleeps, and he dreams - remembers. Inhalers in the woods. Ice rinks. Tattoos. High school dances. Two hours treading water in a pool. Screams. Blood. Explosions. Lydia.

Lydia.

Sometimes the door clicks open in the middle of the night. Soft footsteps tiptoe across the cold wooden floor and the bed dips slightly. They lie awake for a while, his hand finding hers and holding on like a lifeline. They try to remember to breathe. To ignore the date. To forget anything that might be from another time. And then at some point, they fall asleep. They can’t afford not to. Lydia has to be at the diner early, and the storm last night means Stiles will have more work than usual at the pool. And of course there’s school, and the dance that Lydia had agreed to help plan, a soft smile on her face when a couple of girls in their homeroom had approached her the other day. There’s a pickup game of baseball that Stiles said he might go along to once he’s finished clearing leaves out of the water. There’s life to be living.

He never asks if she regrets their decision to run. She doesn’t tell him. He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be.


End file.
